Symbolism of a Bow
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: Molly's been observing Sherlock for months; she's very worried about him. Something's off, something's wrong. Christmas is no time to be sad, so she decides to intervene. When she finally finds out exactly what's going, she is more than a little surprised.


_Just under the wire for the Christmas Celebration! Big thanks to_ darnedchild _for all her work on the collection and to Mizjoely for betaing this little Christmas fic._

 _I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season. I'm working on a New Years story and_ may be _posting it soon._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

She watched him closely, just as she had been doing for months. Something wasn't quite right; Molly knew it as much as she knew anything.

Sherlock Holmes was was adrift.

He moved through his flat, a constant scowl plastered on his face unless he came into contact with Rosie, barely tolerating the dozen or so people who were occupying his precious space. That wasn't abnormal; Sherlock hated these sort of things. It was actually stranger that he had allowed it to happen at all. But, as Molly had noticed since she'd seen him about a month after the events at Sherrinford, Sherlock looked… troubled.

Oh, he could put on quite an act when necessary, which was all too often in the last four months, but it wasn't fooling Molly.

" _... looking sad when you think no one can see you."_

" _You can see me."_

" _I don't count."_ *

This time, oddly enough, he seemed to be 'pretending' in front of her rather than John. Problem was, she knew him far too well.

In the lab, even when focused on a case, he was slightly off. Though his focus was obviously on the facts in front of him, he seemed confused and it was clear to Molly that it had nothing to do with the case. Confusion usually drove Sherlock to look deeper into the evidence or ask more questions. The look on his face betrayed something else altogether, as if he were simultaneously working on two different puzzles at once. Then he would say something to her - ask her for assistance or make some general comment about the evidence - and the mask would be firmly in place. What was he hiding?

Other times, he seemed detached, distracted. On more than one occasion, she caught him mumbling to himself. It was something he did often, at least during a case. Working through the evidence, he would often mumble about soil, blood or footprints, sussing out the relevant information. But lately his muttered words seemed to have nothing to do with the case in front of him, or if they did, there was some connection she couldn't make out. Why, for example, would he need a murderer to forgive him? He often whispered the word _lie_ to himself when he didn't know she was listening.

As she studied him over the months, she'd decided that this was natural to some extent or at least natural for Sherlock Holmes. Mary's death - which he must still blame himself for - followed so closely by the revelations about his sister had caused the logically minded genius a great deal of confusion, guilt and most of all pain.

More than a dozen times Molly had considered asking him if he wanted to talk, if he needed a confidant. But surely he knew that she was there for him, that she'd keep his secrets; she certainly had before. So she didn't ask, but she kept her silent vigil nonetheless, watching her friend and looking for signs of something worse- something far more destructive.

This night, however, he seemed even more detached than usual, keeping to the corners of the room and watching the partygoers drink, mingle and eat the holiday nibbles that Mrs. Hudson had made.

 _Christmas is no time to brood_ , Molly thought as she made her way towards him. She simply couldn't stand to see anyone, especially him, so sad on Christmas Eve. Besides, the music playing softly in the background had given her an idea.

"Hiya," she said as she took up the spot next to him. "We have to do something."

He looked at her for a long moment before asking, "Really, and what is that?"

"This party is starting to wamp." Sherlock raised an imperious eyebrow. "It's a word I heard my nephew use once. It means… something _bad_ , I assume. Anyway, we should liven it up a bit, don't you think?"

Molly Hooper was the keeper of many secrets, most of them centered around the smartly dressed detective to her right. She knew all about his sweet tooth that he tried to keep hidden. And, of course, she knew about his deep love of dancing. She was about to use it against him. Feeling a more than a bit proud of herself for having the nerve, she asked, "Will you dance with me, Sherlock?" and held out her hand.

His expression faltered. First he looked shocked then… _pained_ , for some reason, but finally a faint amusement showed in his eyes. "How could I refuse such a festively dressed young lady?" he said as he took her hand, leading her out of the corner to the middle of the room.

Molly ignored his jab. She quite enjoyed ugly Christmas sweaters and the grumpy git wasn't going to make her regret her Rudolph jumper; she had bought it just for the party. "Young lady?" she said as she put her hand on his shoulder. "I'll be forty…"

"In three years."

She laughed. "Yes, but it's just waiting out there for me, isn't it?" As she looked to her left, she noticed John and Mrs. Hudson stepping up to dance and Greg swaying to the music as he held little Rosie.

"We've started a trend," Sherlock commented, looking around the room.

"That _was_ the goal," she lied. He needn't know her ulterior motive. "I've always been a trendsetter, don't you know?"

He smiled, a warm, real smile that made Molly's stomach do a little flip.

After that, Molly danced with Greg, then John, then Greg again. Sherlock was manhandled by Mrs. Hudson through two songs. Molly even caught him rocking Rosie a little too rhythmically as the toddler clapped and giggled on his lap. Trying to coax Mycroft into to a dance once he arrived (two hours late) proved an impossible task. Evidently, he didn't ''engage in such tomfoolery". _Killjoy_!

The night wound down, the British Government leaving less than a half an hour after arriving, followed by John and Rosamund. Shortly thereafter Mrs. Hudson excused herself, promising to be back in the morning to 'take care of the mess'.

"Want a ride home, Molls?" Greg asked as he donned his coat.

"Ah, I think I'll stay and clean a bit. Mrs. H had a lot of sherry and I'm not sure she'll feel much like cleaning in the morning."

"Nah, that woman could drink my whole team under the table. But if you're sure?"

"I am. Thanks, Greg."

Molly turned and started bagging up bits of wrapping paper. She didn't hear Sherlock approaching.

"I thought you'd left," he said, sounding confused.

She straightened, tucking a few stray hairs behind her ear. "Here," she said as she handed him the bag. "As if I'd leave without telling you goodbye." Picking up some dishes off of the coffee table, she started for the kitchen.

"What are you doing? Mrs. Hudson will take care of that," Sherlock said as he followed.

Molly rolled her eyes. "It doesn't cause you a bit of shame that you let an eighty year old woman clean up after you, does it?"

"That _eighty year old woman_ smacked me on the arse whilst I was dancing with her!" He put the stopper in the sink and turned on the taps. "I should have known better than to dance with a former stripper."

Molly laughed as she left the kitchen, in search for more dirty wine cups and plates. When she returned she found Sherlock leant up against the counter, wiping his hands on a towel. "You aren't done," she said, placing her haul into the sink.

"And steal all your glory?"

"Just go get the rest, you lazy lout!"

Twenty minutes later the clean-up was done and Molly decided it was time to leave. Gathering up her coat, gloves and scarf, she watched Sherlock. He had that look on his face again. While cleaning he'd been much more animated, more… _him_. But now, it seemed, he was back to his new, maudlin self.

 _It's time,_ Molly thought as she finished buttoning up her coat.

When they reached the door, she turned and placed a hand on his wrist. "Hey, I know this year's been hard. You miss Mary, God knows I do too, and this situation with your sister…"

"I am fine. I'm… dealing with all of that."

"I'm sure you are, but…" She huffed, frustrated as she searched for the right words. "I'm here, you know. I know you're trying to hide it, Sherlock, but you don't have to."

Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair; he was getting frustrated with her. Not that she blamed him; she was bungling the whole thing. "Look, Molly…"

"I know it's none of my business, Sherlock. But I can't help but notice the difference."

"The difference?" he echoed, a confused look on his face.

Squeezing his wrist, she said, "I _see_ you, remember? You've been distracted and distant. This has been a lot to work through and I just wanted you to know that I'm here. If you need to talk about your sister or Mary, I'm…"

"It's not Eurus _or_ Mary, actually." He turned, pacing away, breaking their contact. "It's... something else- some _one_ else, I should say." His back was still turned and he was now standing near the windows that faced Baker Street.

"Someone?" she asked, a bit at a loss.

"I am confused about my _feelings…_ " he bit out the last word as if it caused him physical pain. "...for a certain person."

 _Oh God, John…_

"And no, it's not John Watson. You're as bad as Mrs. Hudson."

 _How does he do that?_ He wasn't even looking at her. "Ah, are these feelings… romantic?"

After a long pause he answered, "Yes, I suppose they are."

Molly dropped her bag onto the sofa and walked toward him, trying her best to ignore the pit in her stomach. "I see. And why are you confused?"

"Confused might be the wrong word," he said as he turned to face her. "I… know how I feel, but I'm not sure how to handle things. This woman…"

 _Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper, Sherlock's in love with another woman._

"... she's very important to me and I'm unsure how to go about telling her."

Visions of Christmas past filled Molly's head. The bright lights of the morgue, Mycroft Holmes, a dead woman…

" _How did Sherlock recognise her from... not her face?"*_

 _Stupid, Molly! Of course it's a woman!_ Then she recalled her conversation with John Watson from just a few months ago.

" _... does love you, you have to know that. Just not like…"_

" _I know, John."_

" _I don't really think he can, Molly. It's not you, in this case, it really is him."_

 _I suppose it is me after all_. Steeling herself, she said, "Right. Well, you just need to be honest, Sherlock. Tell her how you feel."

He laughed bitterly. "If it were that easy, Molly, I assure you I would have done it."

"I'm not sure I understand."

He turned to face her. "I've…" he started then clenched his jaw as he looked across the room. "Things have happened, bad things. Missed opportunities. Worst of all… I feel like I've misled her."

"You lied to her?"

He nodded his head. "About something important." With a sigh, he added, "Lied to myself is more like it," under his breath.

She wanted to be hurt, angry - no doubt later she would be - but at the moment Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of her, looking sad and befuddled. All she could feel was concern for the complicated man. Taking three steps, she reached for his hand, hoping to comfort him. For some reason he only looked sadder.

"It's Christmas, Sherlock, it's a time for family and for friends and for love. If you care about her, and I can tell that you do, then you should tell her. You should show up at her house tomorrow with a gift - something thoughtful, not flashy - and you should apologise for the lying and lay it all out. Just tell her how you feel." She shrugged. "It's what I'd want."

"Really?" he asked hopefully.

The way he lit up caused a sharp pain in her chest, but she nodded anyway. "Yeah." She swallowed, the lump in her throat getting worse by the second. "Trust me, it'll be fine," she said, hoping that she managed to _not_ sound like her heart was breaking.

He smiled, a sweet, genuine smile and said, "Thank you, Molly."

All she could manage was another nod. "It's late. I'm sure Toby is wondering where I am," she said awkwardly, before starting for her bag.

When she got to the door, Sherlock opened it for her. "Happy Christmas, Molly," he said, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

 _Savour it._ When he pulled away she saw something in his eyes: happiness. It had been a long time since she'd seen him look so content. _Just be happy for him, you bitter old cow!_ she told herself as she made her way down the stairs but the tears had already started…

She was powerless to stop them.

* * *

Molly rolled over and groaned, checking her bedside clock. "Seven AM!?" she grumbled. Toby was just as annoyed with the early wake-up and he made his point known with an aggravated _murf_ as he jumped to the floor.

 _Why the hell am I awake? s_ he wondered. Returning home from Baker Street the night before had been less than pleasant. She half hated herself for her reaction to Sherlock's 'girl problems'.

Seconds later, she got her answer when a metallic bang echoed through the flat followed by a deep voice cursing just loud enough for her to hear.

 _Not today. I can't deal with him right now._

Standing, she grabbed her dressing gown before rushing through her door to find out why Sherlock Bloody Holmes was waking her at such an ungodly hour. _This had better be good_ …

She found him in her kitchen… _cooking_? "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Morning, Molly." He waved at her with an oven mitt covered hand. "Go, have a seat. I'll be right in with your hot cocoa."

Molly sniffed the air. "Is that _home-made_?"

"Indeed," he said with a smile. "Mrs. Hudson was most displeased when I woke her up an hour ago to make it. I'm just heating it up."

"I need the loo first, then you're going to tell me what's going on!"

He muttered something unintelligible behind her back as she walked down the hall but she couldn't be arsed to care much. The pillock had woken her up on one of her precious lie-in days; he was lucky he was still breathing.

Taking a moment in the bathroom to collect herself, she splashed water on her face. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. _Damn… Why is he here, now?_ Wetting a flannel, she held it to her eyes, hoping to reduce some of the puffiness. She simply wasn't prepared to see him so soon after the conversation the night before.

When she came back to the sitting room, after having snuck into her room and put on a bra, she found him on her sofa, a nervous look on his face.

 _You'd better be nervous_ , she thought as she approached, letting her annoyance with the early wake-up push away her underlying sadness. It really wasn't working, especially when she looked at Sherlock closely. Something was wrong; she assumed it was a case. It usually was.

"Here you go," he said as he handed her a mug.

Breathing in the rich chocolate, she allowed herself to enjoy it, knowing she was about to have to tell the detective to shove off! It was Christmas for God's sake! "All right, Sherlock. Go ahead."

Setting down his mug, he turned to her and pulled a small package from his breast pocket. "This is for you," he said as he held it out to her.

She took it with a raised eyebrow. "You already gave me a subscription to the _Journal of Clinical Pathology._ "

He huffed. "That was an awful gift and you know it."

Actually, she'd really appreciated it. "What's going on?"

"It's Christmas for God's sake. I'm giving you a gift."

The look on his face set off warning bells as she moved her focus to the small gift in her hands. _Did things not go well with his… girl?_ she wondered. Had the woman tell him to bugger off and now he was looking for comfort? She wasn't entirely sure that she was up to it.

Taking a deep breath, Molly said, "You know, if you need to talk you don't have to ply me with gifts."

He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?" He seemed genuinely confused.

Molly sighed. "It's just after last night… well, did you not have any luck with my advice? What happened?" she asked, wishing she had had at least a shower and some time to wake up before having to deal with the whole thing. She'd passed out the night before without really processing the whole matter. More like sobbing, self-pity and…

"It hasn't exactly happened yet, now has it?"

 _Oh, he's still avoiding it, avoiding her._ "You can't hide here all day, Sherlock. If you want the situation resolved, you're going to have to deal with it."

"I am!" he said as he stood. "I'm 'laying it all out', just as you suggested."

"Do you… do you want to practice? Is that why you're here?"

He rolled his eyes and mumbled, "I'm so rubbish at this," under his breath.

Molly stood, placing the package on the coffee table. "Well, of course you are, Sherlock. But if it helps…"

"You truly don't know." He sounded dumbfounded. "John must have really…"

"John? What's John got to do with this?"

"I thought you'd figured it out last night," he said. "I mean why else…" Suddenly he looked shocked. "You gave me advice about _another woman_?"

Molly had no reply for that, because _WHAT_?

Pacing away, Sherlock said, "Further proof that you really are too good for me and I should end this foolishness before it even begins."

" _What_ foolishness?" Then it dawned on her, hitting her with startling clarity. _He… Oh, my God… He's talking about me? No. Not possible._

After John's explanation of The Phone Call, the gut-wrenching reality of it if hit her like slap in the face: No matter how 'over him' she'd pretended to be, she wasn't and this was just the motivation she needed. Molly realised it was well past time to take control of the situation. So she took a short holiday to stay with her brother in Brighton. When she returned she felt a little more in settled.

"Who's the girl, Sherlock?" she asked. She had to know - had to make him say it.

"It's you, Molly. It's always been… you."

"But John said…"

He turned, facing her once again. "I know what John said, Molly, I practically wrote him a script. But it wasn't true."

She sat down on the edge of the coffee table and thought through what he was saying. It was almost too much. During her two weeks with her brother, Molly had made some decisions, most of them centered around the detective who was nervously pacing the length of her front room. Anxious as he was, he was going to have to give her a bloody moment!

By her third day in Brighton, Molly was finally starting to feel more like a human being after the emotional upheaval of the week before. Her conversation with John had hurt, that much was true, but there had been a finality to it. Sherlock would never be hers, it wasn't as if she didn't already know that, but hearing it - outloud - completely changed her perspective. She'd known that she'd always love him but perhaps now she could really move on.

Not that she'd had much time for 'moving on'. Between work, John, Rosie and Sherlock's distressing mood Molly's life had been quite full.

Now, however...

"Molly?" Sherlock said, breaking her train of thought. "I've waited too long, haven't I?"

She didn't respond.

"I didn't realise it until you left for Brighton. I mean… I knew something was wrong, or right, or… unfinished, maybe? That phone call unearthed something, but I didn't quite know what." He huffed. "Then you came back and you seemed so happy and settled. Almost unaffected. I've spent the last several months trying to decide if I'd lost my mind or if it was some kind of PTSD."

 _That's nice,_ Molly thought. _Loving me is equivalent to a nervous disorder…_

"Okay, that may have sounded insulting but I didn't mean it like that."

In reality, Molly wasn't sure if she still had any fight left in her. She'd reconciled herself to just being Sherlock's friend years ago and refortified her defenses in the last few months. _Not as fortified as you thought according to your pity party last night, Hooper!_ Could she go back down that road, though? She wasn't really sure. On top of that, there was a part of her that didn't actually believe him. Maybe she - this situation - was some sort of emotional outlet for all the trauma of the last few months? He'd just said as much. Could she put her heart on the line _in hopes_ that he truly loved her? _I love him, yes, but I won't be some sort of punching bag. How much more…?_

Suddenly Sherlock was in front of her, crouched down, looking her in the eyes. "Will you open this?" he asked, pleadingly, holding up the present.

Feeling numb and stunned at the same time, she nodded and took the smartly wrapped gift from his hand. As she pulled off the lid an involuntary gasp escaped her mouth.

Sherlock gently took the box from her hands, removing the shiny silver bow. Though slightly less shiny than it was the last time she'd seen it - not to mention quite smashed, almost flat, actually - Molly still recognised it immediately. "How…?"

"I deduced that it must have fallen out of your hair when you put on your coat that evening to leave."

His deduction wasn't shocking; Molly had assumed she'd lost it somewhere between Baker Street and home that night. What _was_ shocking, however, was the reverent way he was holding it. He held it as if it were something incredibly precious.

"Why is this my gift?" she asked.

"Well, it's… symbolic, I suppose. I found it when I left to go to the morgue that night and put it in the pocket of my coat. I never took it out."

He stood, still holding the bow, and took a step back. "I missed it. I didn't have it whilst I was gone. And I… missed it," he said, looking up at her. He smiled almost wistfully then shook himself. "When I got back to London and was finally reunited with the Belstaff…"

Molly nearly laughed out loud, thinking that he spoke of the coat like a long lost lover.

"... it was there. How I don't know, since my coat had clearly been dry cleaned," he explained with a bit of laughter in his voice. "But I was _very_ pleased to see it."

Standing, Molly stepped up to him, reaching for the bow.

Sherlock jerked his hand back, not allowing her to take it. "The gift is the symbolism of the bow, Molly, not the _actual_ bow. You can't have it back."

At first she thought he was teasing, then she realised that the was dead serious when he continued.

"I didn't know why I'd kept it. All these years and I've kept it, close. Usually in my coat pocket. But while you were gone, after the call, it dawned on me. It wasn't the bow, Molly, it was you." He swallowed, looking terribly forlorn and said, "I needed you with me. Still do. Always."

Molly stood and joined him in the middle of the room. Realising just why he'd kept the bow, even if he hadn't yet, she made her decision.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock." Cupping his cheek, she said, "Me or the bow," then raised up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! Comments are life!_

 _* indicated lines that belong to BBC's Sherlock_  
 _**also, full credit to my nephew for: "This party is starting to wamp" I could never come up with something so clever._


End file.
